


the peach blossom

by aiineslin



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 21:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15782829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiineslin/pseuds/aiineslin
Summary: in which you become barbara's personal hairstylist.





	the peach blossom

**Author's Note:**

> \- written in response to this prompt (https://thedennings.tumblr.com/post/177341295598/would-it-be-okay-to-ask-for-a-fic-about)

The first few weeks in prison are wracked by nightmares.

It is to be expected; after all, you are trapped in hell on earth, with a bunkmate who takes shits while staring you in the eyes, and there is only one copy of Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix in the prison library and it is annotated with lewd drawings of the Golden Trio in a threeway and -

You are used to your creature comforts; the sweet smells of artisan coffee, soft fluffy pillows and hipster food markets. God knows how you’ll get through this. But get through you _did_ , amazingly enough, because the human organism adapts to everything and anything sooner or later.

For a little while, you keep your head down and you manage to mosey by without catching the attention of the pack of hollow-eyed women who run D-Block. That is, until you let slip to one of your friends, a short, freckly redhead named Molly, that you used to be a hairstylist.

Molly had cooed her amazement before launching straight into a barrage of questions-slash-requests, “Do you know how to do fishtail braids?”

“ _Duh_ ,” you had replied. “I can do any sorta braids.” You puff your chest a little out of that; you are the best hairstylist in your salon, damn it! (That is, until you got busted for kidnapping your ex-boyfriend to extort money from his family… What a long and unfortunate story that is.)

“Oh my _gawd_ , you need to make me look like a Disney princess.”

You forget about this conversation, that is, until a stocky Latina with dyed blonde hair rolled up to you wearing a shit-eating grin during lunch hour four days later.

You know who she is.

You’ve seen her around often enough, an arm wound casually around the waist of one of the skinny, hollow-eyed girls that are part of the main clique.

“Heard you’re a hairstylist on the outside,” Daddy says.

You twitch a little. “I can do some tricks with hair, yeah.”

“Yeah?” says Daddy, quirking an eyebrow. “Well, I know someone who’s _very_ interested in that particular skillset.”

_Oh no._

_*_

From far, Barbara is perpetually surrounded by a swarm of lackeys, buzzing around her. They bring her Coke and Noxzema and beauty magazines. They gossip a _lot_ and you can occasionally hear Barbara cackling out loud at a joke one of her girls tell. You are mildly intimidated by that; you recognise a queen bee lording it over her peons when you see it.

(Besides, you’ve heard the stories. They are warped and twisted from the weight of many re-tellings, but the gist is this – if a woman can kill her own flesh and blood, she can and she _will_ kill _you_ too if you cross her.)

Up close, she is all smiles and fast, sharp movements. Her hands never stop moving. They are fiddling with a yellowed card now. You recognise it as a Trivial Pursuit card, before it disappears quick as a flash up her sleeve. Barbara smiles at you, and it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Behind you, Daddy is looking out at the prison at large, hands tucked in her pockets.

You are aware of sweat beading on your upper lip; it is a warm day, and the cell is small and stifling.

“Daddy tells me you used to be a hairstylist,” says Barbara. “And when I heard that, I thought to myself, _my_ , but I am such a lucky duck. It’s always so lovely to see a girl who makes an honest living through _beauty,_ no?”

The only answer you can think of to say is, “Yes?”

You sound like an idiot, but this is one of those questions that did not require an answer, and you are right – Barbara beams like the sun and she says, “That’s settled then; you’re my hairstylist from now on.”

What?

*

You piece together the situation through gossip and personal observation.

Firstly, C-Block and D-Block are at perpetual war. Secondly, the last time they put C-Block and D-Block women on the same salon shift, someone got a pair of scissors stuck up their nostrils. Thirdly, to prevent incidents like that from happening again, C-Block and D-Block women got different salon days. Fourthly, Barbara’s last hairstylist was found dead after she was caught carrying on with a lass from C-Block.

There was something undeniably Romeo and Juliet-esque (Juliet and Juliet-esque) about that situation.

But the _point_ is that you find yourself being put on the beauty salon shift, and you must admit, it really is fun getting back into the swing of things.

A salon is a salon, whether it is a prison salon or some swanky, upscale get-up in the central business district.

There is chatter and laughter. Women talk, women relax, and you fix Barbara’s hair before you work on anybody else’s – that is the unspoken end of your side of the bargain.

Her requests are simple and exact – cover up her greying hair, give it shine and bounce, and give her an occasional trim.

Once you are done, you can move on to your next client. Most shifts, Barbara stays the length of it with you, whiling away the hours bantering with you and whatever clients and girls who are on shift with you.

Barbara is very kind and funny, you think, once you get to know her a little bit more.

She knows way too much about current celebrity gossip for someone who’s been stuck in prison for the best part of thirty years, she constantly references someone named Jolene (who you later find out is some self-proclaimed fortune teller-slash-guru from Florida), and she has a good voice which she puts to use by constantly humming earworms.

You find yourself liking her.

There are times when you remember what she is, though.

There are incidents.

A suspected C-Block spy is beaten half to death. The warning, “Don’t beat Barbara at Trivial Pursuit.” – which sounded quite silly at first, but then you remember the urban legends that had sprung up about the cookie who trounced Barbara at her game. The hollow-eyed girls, always, the hollow-eyed girls – who are quite nice in their own ways, yes, but you see how they shake and quiver when they don’t get their happy pills.

You are reminded of what Barbara is under the good cheer.

*

“Hey, you.”

Daddy is standing outside your cell, leaning against the doorway. Annalisa is beside her, peering around at your cell.

You have learnt that being visited by Daddy is generally not a good thing. It’s much worse when one of her blonde girls are with her.

“Yeah?”

“Boss lady wants to talk to you.”

On your way to Barbara’s cell, you wonder, _what the fuck have you done?_

“Did you fuck up her hair?” Annalisa’s question is a genuinely innocent curious query, the skinny girl prodding at your arm as the three of you head to Barbara’s cell.

“I don’t think so,” you mutter.

“Nah, it’s not that,” says Daddy. “Trust me, you’d know if you did.”

“So… This isn’t a – _bad_ sort of talk, right?”

“How would I know?” Daddy wears a shit-eating grin before she turns away from you, calling into the cell. “Barbara, she’s here.”

“Oh! Hello, hello.”

The cell is as dark and stifling as it is the first time you visited, only this time, Barbara is getting up from her bed, pulling her eye mask off her face.

She looks rumpled and relaxed, and you feel yourself easing a little bit too – if it was bad news, there would probably be someone else in here, with intent in their eyes and a sharp tool fisted in their hand.

“Hi, Barbara.”

“Hello, dear.” She pats the empty space beside her on the bed invitingly, and you perch yourself down beside her, sitting right on the very edge. Barbara smiles. “Make yourself comfortable, c’mon.” So saying, she reaches out and hauls you in closer with a surprisingly strong grip. “I called you in today because I’ve got some questions about you, ducky.”

“Yes, Barbara?” You feel a creeping feeling of apprehension crawl up your neck.

It must have shown a little on your expression, because Barbara laughs and she titters and she says, “Oh, it isn’t an interrogation, ducky. Oh no.”

She reaches out and smudges a thumb under the dark circles gathered under your eyes. “I’ve just been noticing – you look _terrible_ these days,” she says, and she pinches your cheek a little too hard. You flinch a little under her touch, and Barbara cocks her head owlishly, a small grin dragging itself across her face. “And really, it’s just _unseemly_ for my personal stylist to look so awful.”

“It’s difficult to sleep,” the words slide out of your mouth, and the moment they leave your tongue, you look down and away, not daring to see her reaction. Because honestly, it’s such a stupid thing to confess to the queen bee of D-Block, a hard-bitten war veteran of the prison system.

Long seconds of silence ticked by, and you flick your gaze up, only to meet a strangely considering gaze, Barbara cupping her chin in her hand as she looks you up and down.

It is strangely unnerving to be pinned under such a boldly assessing gaze; Barbara looks as sharp as you’d ever seen her, when she is not high on some substance or other, teetering between different moods.

“I suppose you want me to give you a lil something to help you sleep?” Barbara’s voice is sweet and guileless.

“N-no, not really,” you stammer out. You angle yourself a little away from her unconsciously. “I mean -”

“Because,” Barbara continues, steamrolling over your half-hearted words. “I _could_ , but I won’t.” She pats your knees comfortingly and gives them a hard squeeze. There is something too knowing in her eyes. “Kids shouldn’t take drugs, baby. Say yes, ma’am.”

You drop your gaze. “Yes, ma’am.”

She removes her hand from your knee and heaves a deep sigh. “Whatever will I do with you kids?”

It is a question that does not require an answer, and you do not speak.

“Come here, baby.” She motions at you to put your head on her lap, and when you do not respond immediately, she quirks an eyebrow at you. “I won’t bite.”

You cannot say you foresaw this happening, but you find yourself curling up into her lap, nestling into her soft thighs. Close-up, she smells of coconut soap.

Barbara runs her fingers through your hair, combing out the tangled strands with sure, gentle strokes. It is comforting, familiar, and you feel your eyelids drooping down.

“You’re my baby girl, aren’t you?” says Barbara quietly, lovingly, and you nod sleepily, drifting away into the first dreamless sleep you had since entering prison.


End file.
